Arthur Loses His Voice
by Wyndmir
Summary: Curt is frustrated with his lover. Is Arthur unhappy or was this his plan all along? CA fluff with a side of steaminess. Standard nonownership, nonprofit disclaimer applies.


"Bring your shoulders to the left...Good. Yeah, hold that."

_Just take the fucking picture already_. Curt's lips twitched, eager to be wrapped around a cigarette. This photographer was prima donna pain in the ass. The lights were hot, his knees were sore from kneeling here, that guy's voice was irritating, but the sulking brunette in the corner was _really_ working his nerves.

"Can we get some gloss on the lips?"

_That does it_. Curt broke the awkward pose, hopped off the gilded pedestal on which he had been placed, let the sticky, gold, plastic shirt slide off his shoulders, and padded across the studio to his jacket, which was flung over the make up chair, and fished out his pack. He pulled in a drag deep enough to burn half the cigarette and let it out in one long, low feral growl. _Fucking good_. As usual, utterly casual bordering on oblivious to his own body and the space it occupied, he stretched out his stiff muscles, shaking his sinewy arms, nearly taking out the stool behind him, the make up box on the counter, and the can of Aquanet the hairdresser was angling around his head, trying to get a clear shot at the long limp waves hanging in his eyes.

"Oh _good_. Yes!" Evidently, the photographer had followed his every move, and showing actual taste Curt wouldn't have guessed he possessed, was getting more from these candid shots than the tarted-up, over choreographed poses the label had hired him for. Rapid click-buzzes as the camera ate up film of Curt's lean lines, dagger eyes, corn-silk hair, followed him around as he paced in the studio, smoking, and just being Curt Wild, which was a sultry mixture of grace, nonchalance, and energy honed into a whole new brand of performance art that fit his body like a second skin. The photographer was in heaven. The camera was capturing all of Curt's visceral prowl, the roll of corded muscles that were perfect on the aging singer, so much more dangerous than the supple, dew-soaked bodies of mass produced pop stars. Shots of his hands, long, well shaped fingers tipped in callouses pinching the filter, idly rubbing the hip, somehow strong and fluid in their movement, looking at the same time like artfully carved marble, and raw, hot flesh in its basest form. The pops, flashes, and scratches of the camera, an articulation of the clench in his stubbled jaw and the sharpness of his mouth as his clear eyes settled on the tall, quiet man again and again.

Curt's arm shot into the air with such force, that stitches popped in his form fitting shirt. He thought about tripping Arthur as he climbed into the cab, just to see if the man would make a noise.

"Was ok, I guess." He said after some time, bored with watching the blurred scenery of 52nd trail by through the grimy window. He glanced at Arthur who shrugged slightly, smiled a false smile and turned back to his window. Curt rolled his eyes, abandoning his attempt to start a conversation. He was smart, fun, patient, giving, whatever. Just everything Curt needed him to be. But when Arthur lost his voice, it was all Curt could do not to crack a beer bottle over his head. Was it work? No, not really. Was he bored? A little, but not too much. Was it _him_? Fuck that, Curt hadn't done anything. No, Arthur just sometimes lapsed into silence. For Whatever Reason. He got the funk. But not like George Clinton. Curt had tried space (unsatisfying for him, as oddly enough the quieter Arthur got, the hornier Curt got, as if his body were rebelling against Arthur's and wanting to _force_ him to make some kind of sound. But since Curt didn't want to bruise the poor kid, had to resort to long trips to the bathroom like he was a teenager ditching grammar or something). He'd tried patience (a tall order for him, though he'd done reasonably well, despite that fact that if he couldn't see it or touch it right when he wanted it, _he_ was prone to becoming moody as fuck himself). He'd tried chit chat, but had longer and more lively conversations with his guitar. And forcing Arthur to talk was useless. Nothing was ever wrong, he was just fine except for what he didn't know, he wouldn't make eye contact, but kept his chin ducked, his voice diminishing with his monosyllabic responses until it died all together, prompting Curt to retreat to the bathroom. If nothing else, Curt was stubborn, though, and determined not to leave Arthur to these episodes of melancholy. He was going to help the fool find his voice again. One way or the other.

"Have you seen my notes?" A full sentence! Curt grinned inwardly. If he had known it was going to be this easy, he would have tried this a while ago. Curt propped his guitar between his thigh and his elbow and nudged a steno pad towards the reporter. The blond waited for the string of complaints from the journalist when he saw that his rock star boyfriend had scrawled lyrics all over his unemployment research. But Arthur wasn't playing along. He took the notes, flipped through them frowning slightly, and turned to go back inside. Fucker.

"Hey, wait a sec." In a blink, Curt was standing, guitar against the wall, his fingers pulling Arthur's shoulder, to spin the younger man back towards him. With a firm grip, he steered Arthur to the edge of the roof, leaning against him, trapping him between the wall and his body. As lively as an automaton, Arthur stood bonelessly, letting his head tilt back to the sky.

"Look." Curt whispered, warm, wet breath against the shell of Arthur's ear. He gestured to nothing in the night sky. "Make a wish."

Nothing. Arthur just stood there, looking at the nothing Curt pointed to, like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Moments passed, and his body tensed, as if he was about to push Curt aside and go back into the apartment. Frustrated, and not really wanting to make another trek into the bathroom (not when the night was so clear and warm as this one and the one thing he needed was closer than arm's reach), Curt didn't let Arthur have his way.

Curt shifted, as if allowing Arthur to pass unhindered, but before he could make it to the stairs, Curt was pulling and pushing him, guiding his tall, muscular frame down onto the roof top. And Arthur _still_ didn't make a sound. Leering wickedly, Curt ripped his oxford open, plastic buttons clattering against concrete. Arthur's lower lip protruded in a pout, but didn't budge to let a complaint pass.

"I can't help but notice," Curt's voice was graveled by passion, "that you're not talking to me." He trailed light kisses over Arthur's jaw and neck, leaning back to take in the valley of unblemished skin, drenched in urban moonlight, rapidly warming beneath the palms of his roaming hands. If intense need hadn't been squeezing the air from his chest or dimming his lust darkened eyes, he would have grabbed the journalist's pad and scribbled furiously, what would have no doubt been his greatest hit (if it weren't too carnal to keep it off the airwaves). But now, in the cloying night air, the sounds of traffic humming below them, like the city's life current, and Arthur's still mostly silent, half naked body beginning to pulse beneath him, Curt knew there were _much_ better things to grab. He unfastened Arthur's jeans and pushed them down, sliding down his body, until he was settled in between the younger man's thighs. He licked at his fingers, and ghosted them lightly from the base to the tip, then followed suit with his tongue and lips, nuzzling, kissing, nibbling everywhere but there, making the ache almost unbearable for both of them. When the flush spread from Arthur's cheeks, down across his chest and his breath was coming out in pants, Curt pulled back altogether.

"If you want more, you better damn well start talking to me again." He pushed his still moist hand down the front of his own pants, putting on quite a show for his moodily taciturn lover.

"Fucking tease." Arthur mumbled, his lips curling into a smirk despite himself.

"Was that so hard?" Curt chuckled licking his hand wantonly, and leaning back down over Arthur. He parted his lips, spreading them just enough over the tip, his tongue laving over the soft, heated skin, his hand still only loosely encircling Arthur, hardly enough pressure to please.

"Damn." Arthur groaned, hands coming down to Curt's head, pushing lightly for deeper contact. "What do you want me to say?" His voice deliciously low and ragged from want. Arthur bucked his hips, and Curt took the opportunity to slide the other hand in between his thighs, pushing them further apart, then pressing the tip of his calloused finger against the tight ring of muscle. Arthur was as close to crying out as he ever was, biting down on his lip until the pink skin turned white. Curt decided that he'd learned his lesson and took him deeper into his mouth, at the same time pushing his finger in, stroking him from the inside, sucking him from the outside, burying Arthur in dual sensations that were rapidly overwhelming them both. Curt licked and swallowed and hummed, smiling to himself with each hard won gasp and moan he wrung out of Arthur. He felt like he was about to rip through his own pants, but decided to wait and let Arthur settle that score afterwards. He pushed and pulled harder and deeper, getting off on Arthur forgetting himself, becoming louder and louder until he shuddered and jerked, Curt's name coming out almost like a sob as his orgasm over took him. Curt took his time, leaning back, licking his lips shamelessly and grinning down at Arthur.

"You know, if this is really what you want, you could have just asked, instead of clamming up on me for a whole week."

"Tosser!" Arthur chuckled as he pulled Curt down for a lip bruising kiss.

Before they broke away Arthur promised himself a lapse into pouty silence at least once a week.


End file.
